


Anointment

by orphan_account



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Baptism, Bathing/Washing, Blood As Lube, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Cock Worship, Come Marking, Creepy it’s just fucking creepy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubious Consent, Feet Washing, Hopefully a satisfying one, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, John sure is happy about it, Love Confessions, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm being conflicted af, Marking, Minor Character Death, Not Actually As Porny As It Sounds, Oh look Malcolm got his hug!, Oooooo, Oral Sex, Psychological Torture, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming, Rituals, Rough Oral Sex, Ship name Jizzjazz, Shower Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, Stockholm syndrome like fucking woah, The plot appears, Waterboarding, Whipping, i was bullied into adding that tag, not really but kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John leaned forward to take Malcolm’s head in his hands and kiss him on the forehead. “Now I will purify you in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.”“And I will be grateful,” Malcolm completed the dialogue numbly.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Comments: 52
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame discord enablers for all of this. Every single word.
> 
> Mind the rape tag! There's nothing pretty here. This fic takes place weeks into Malcolm's kidnapping and features religious fanaticism as an excuse for rape.

The chair scraped across the basement’s concrete, scratching lines across drying bloodstains. Malcolm winced away from the sound but resisted the urge to throw the comforter over his face, to wrap it around himself like flimsy armor. John had already seen him so afraid, had seen him in the grasp of seizures, had cut into him until he’d screamed. On the rare chance that he had any scraps of dignity left, Malcolm was going to cling to them like a drowning man at sea.

John crouched to lay a towel over the floor before the chair, then straightened and exited the room. Malcolm eyed the towel, mind immediately summoning increasingly disturbing possibilities for its use. John could bind him to the chair, bleed him out until the floor around them was red. He could sit and bend Malcolm over his knee, hands and ankles bound, so he couldn’t escape the switch even when it made him bleed. Or he could just tie Malcolm to the chair and leave him to freeze without the one comfort left in the cell. The blanket was stained with night sweat and stank of fear, but it was all he had. John had threatened to take it from him, once, and the thought of huddling against the wall, naked and cold, made something snap inside Malcolm. He’d been so hysterical that John let it remain, apparently satisfied that the threat would keep Malcolm in line.

But when John returned after what felt like an eternity but probably wasn’t more than a handful of minutes, he only carried a large pot, the tension in his arms suggesting it was heavy. When he set it down on the towel, Malcolm saw why: it was about half-full with water tinged yellow, visible even against the silver of the metal. Enough dust drifted across the surface to indicate the pot hadn’t been used in some time, and Malcolm felt strangely relieved. At least if no cooking was being done in the cabin, it hadn’t been used in some time. He swallowed past that speck of optimism immediately: John wouldn’t have been using this cabin for cooking.

Malcolm stiffened as John moved towards him, the silver flash of a key making his stomach twist. He hadn’t been out of these cuffs since a poorly-planned lunge at John’s legs a while ago. A week? He had no way of knowing. There were no windows and what little sleep he got wasn’t cyclical. Mostly he drifted between hallucinations and painful, wounded awareness, the two blurring when he was left alone. It was only John’s visits that grounded him to reality. Some days, Malcolm wished they wouldn’t. Wished he’d detach completely. Short of death, it seemed like the only escape from this hell.

He’d given up hope that Gil would find him. John had kicked him until Malcolm coughed up blood the day he did; he hadn’t obeyed orders. Hadn’t even lifted his head. But the realization brought with it some clarity. If this was his new reality, there were things he could do to make it more bearable.

So when John paused before him, the only right answer was on Malcolm’s lips before he even asked. “Will you behave, little Malcolm?”

Malcolm fixed his eyes on the floor between John’s feet. “Yes.”

“Will you listen?”

“Yes.”

“Will you obey?”

Malcolm blinked past the phantom sting of tears in his eyes. Even after all this time, he still cried. “Yes.”

“Hold out your hands.”

Malcolm did, elbows and shoulders sore and stuff, and John unlocked the cuffs. He took one of Malcolm’s thin wrists in one hand and turned it with an irritated grunt at the bruising. “Have you been trying to escape?” He asked, voice clipped with anger.

“No,” Malcolm said quickly, holding his other hand with the palm facing upwards in surrender.

John’s thumb pressed into the bruising on the underside of Malcolm’s wrist until he sucked a pained breath in through his teeth. “Are you lying to me, little Malcolm?”

“No!” Malcolm shook his head frantically, glancing upwards to meet the angry line of John’s mouth before he dropped his eyes again. “When I sleep, they–”

“Enough.” John’s voice was a roll of thunder wrapped into a single word and Malcolm shrank back, dropping his head, hands raised in an approximation of supplication such that when John released his wrist, he rocked forward briefly before steadying himself. The movement made Malcolm’s breath catch in his lungs. He hadn’t been ordered to move. The option of moving hadn’t been offered to him.

If he noticed, John didn’t consider the infraction worthy of punishment. Malcolm’s shoulders sagged in relief and he kept track of John’s actions as well as he could with his eyes permanently lowered. But he was only unlacing and removing his shoes, one after the other, before stripping off his socks as well.

Malcolm was familiar enough with the Bible to know what was coming.

“Jesus’ disciples washed his feet willingly, in love. They recognized him as their savior and thanked him with their lives. They saw the purifying forgiveness he was bringing before any other. They were true believers.

“You are my disciple, whether or you want to be or not. One day, you’ll thank me, little Malcolm. I promise. I am your _ savior_. I am going to show you that you are meant to be one of us. I will raise you from the misery living a lie has buried you in.” John placed his feet into the pot, and its circumference promising Malcolm would have to lift one foot at a time to wash them.

Malcolm shuffled forward on his knees, each motion making stiff tendons and bruised patellae scream in protest. He paused a moment, waiting for John to give him soap, but it never came. This was entirely symbolic, then. He expected shame to come with that realization, but it didn’t. Right then, he was too tired to care about his pride.

John was silent as Malcolm worked, taking his time. The longer he took, the more he could forestall punishment. Or, worse, loneliness. He scooped handfuls of water from the pot and let them cascade over John’s foot before rubbing at the skin, careful not to verge onto the territory of a massage. If John thought Malcolm was missing the point, that he was trying to please him instead of doing what was ordered, this would all be ruined.

Malcolm worked his fingers between each toe, the grit between them transferring to his fingers before he rinsed them in the water, which was slowly becoming touched with gray. John wasn’t dirty. He’d teased Malcolm with the opportunity to shower if he was good enough (he still wasn’t, probably never would be), but his feet were calloused and dry. Cracked skin ran down the outside of his foot, ending at a split at the corner of his big toenail. Malcolm was careful not to irritate the area, desperately careful, because he knew that foot would end up pressing his face into the rough concrete or planted in his stomach if he caused John any pain. If he didn’t worship him the way he wanted.

Malcolm kept his head down as he worked, eyes raised just enough that he could see what he was doing. He finished one foot up to the ankle, and when John didn’t order him to continue higher, lowered his leg so that his foot rested on the towel. He hesitated, caught between whether he should dry the first foot before moving on to wash the second, but John remained silent. He didn’t raise his hand to strike, or inhale to lash out at Malcolm with his words, so Malcolm hurried to wash the other foot. He could dry them both together, that felt more reverent. Closer to what John wanted from his fantasy.

Malcolm wasn’t too far gone that he couldn’t distinguish John’s needs from his own, and he clung to that. The moment he lost that was the moment he would lose himself.

He set to washing John’s other foot, struggling to summon a mental clock to match the time it took to wash the first one. He didn’t want to seem in a rush or like he was overdoing things in an attempt to curry favor. John liked to see him desperate. _ Loved _ to see him desperate, if the visible arousal in his eyes and pants was anything to go by. But he wanted to see the fear. He didn’t want to see bargaining.

And Malcolm didn’t want to bargain.

He rinsed his hands with quick flicks under the waterline before lifting John’s foot from the pot and setting it next to the other on the towel. He folded the ends around each foot and squeezed the layer around the general shapes before he positioned one heel after the other on his knee to dry between John’s toes. When they were dry enough that Malcolm couldn’t see any drops of water left, he positioned them gently on the dryer end of the towel and shifted his weight back onto the balls of his feet.

John’s hand lifted to his hair and Malcolm’s diaphragm froze, heartbeat stuttering in his chest in fear that he’d failed. But John only stroked his fingers through the oily strands, bizarrely gentle as he worked through tangles. “Very good, Malcolm,” He said, and Malcolm nearly moaned in relief, muscles unseizing.

“Recite the first book of John, verse nine.”

Malcolm took a deep breath and closed his eyes, raising his hands together in prayer position that would never feel genuine. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” He’d memorized the verse by now. He knew this tradition of theirs by heart.

“Confess your sins, little one.”

Malcolm rattled off the correct answers. “I have betrayed my father, who gave me life. I took his guidance for granted and disobeyed him. I have disobeyed you and responded to your grace with malice in my heart.” He swallowed. The last one was always the hardest to say. “I have strayed from the path God has set forth for me.”

John leaned forward to take Malcolm’s head in his hands and kiss him on the forehead. His beard scraped along Malcolm’s skin and he closed his eyes to shield himself from the sight of a strong neck and broad shoulders. “Now I will purify you in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“And I will be grateful,” Malcolm completed the dialogue numbly, already feeling phantom ache in his throat. John shifted to sit on the edge of the seat and drew Malcolm in by a fist in his hair, still gentle in a way that made Malcolm want to scream. John’s moods were unpredictable. His fingers could pull at any minute, hard enough to tear hairs from Malcolm’s scalp, and without looking at his face, Malcolm had no way of knowing.

He reached numbly for John’s belt and pulled it from its loops before unzipping his jeans and gently drawing his already half-hard cock free. For the most part, it got easier each time. He learned how to walk the edge between pleasing John and letting him use Malcolm’s lips, his tongue, his throat. He’d learned that John _ loved _ hearing Malcolm gag. “_Repentance requires punishment for your sins_,” he’d said at the beginning, so far down Malcolm’s throat he couldn’t move, couldn’t _ breathe _.

Malcolm positioned each hand on John’s spread knees and leaned in, mouth open. John guided Malcolm forward until the head of his cock breached Malcolm’s lips, fingers carding through his hair before his hand cradled the back of his skull. He pulled Malcolm’s mouth slowly down his cock, inch by excruciating inch. The blunt head hit the back of Malcolm’s mouth and he didn’t bother holding back the gag, fingering digging into the denim of John’s jeans and toes curling as his body spasmed. It felt like an eternity before John’s cock was fully inside him, Malcolm’s lips and nose mashed into dark, musky pubic hair. His eyes watered and John brushed a rough thumb over the outer corner of his eye where tears were beginning to spill over. “You’re beautiful when you cry, my Malcolm,” He murmured, voice low and quiet in a way that sent electricity spidering down Malcolm’s spine. “And when you cry, I know you are sincere in your repentance.”

Malcolm squeezed out a whimper of a breath, one last taste of oxygen before John began. He brought both hands to Malcolm’s head, one using his hair like a handle to pull him in and away, in and away. Malcolm sucked obediently when he was pulled back and pressed his tongue along the underside of John’s cock as his head was forced back down. John alternated between slow, deep thrusts when he pulled back far enough that the head of his cock caught on the inside of Malcolm’s lips then pressed back in in a slow, slick slide, and fucking Malcolm’s mouth with harsh, quick motions, testicles slapping against his chin.

Malcolm held on through it all, clinging to John’s pant legs for dear life, choking on flesh and saliva he couldn’t swallow back. His tears mixed with it, creating thick, wet tracks from the corners of his mouth down his chin. It dripped onto the floor below, onto Malcolm’s own forearms where it cooled quickly. His vision blurred with tears and black spots, but as always, John tugged him back with a wet _ pop _ as his cock left Malcolm’s lips right when he was on the verge of passing out.

Malcolm dropped his forehead onto John’s knee, coughing ragged and uncontrollable until the ache in his throat became dry and rasping. He flinched when John lifted his jaw, fingers smearing through the spit on his chin, an almost awestruck pride in his voice as he spoke. “Now I anoint you with holy oil to remind you that you are dedicated to loving and surrendering to the wishes of God.”

As he passed a slick thumb over Malcolm’s forehead, the oil produced out of nowhere, Malcolm couldn’t help but be miserably satisfied at the breathless note in John’s voice. He was doing something right. He was doing something _ well_.

The respite didn’t last long. The oil hadn’t even begun to dry when John forced his way into Malcolm’s mouth again, this time groaning outright at the way his throat spasmed in protest. “Begin,” John said, hand sliding down to hold Malcolm by the side of his neck, thumb pressing against his trachea like he could feel the outline of his cock moving through Malcolm’s skin.

Shuddering in a sickening blend of horror and arousal, Malcolm lifted his hand to hold the base of John’s cock in place as he worked his lips and tongue and throat around it. This was the opportunity John was giving him to prove his dedication, and Malcolm devoured his cock with desperate fervor. If he was good, if he made John come, he’d eat this night.

“I give to you salvation,” John’s breath was quick, his pulse a powerful throb against Malcolm’s tongue, “So that you will be saved from sin and suffering.” Malcolm screwed up his eyes, hardly breathing as he continued his frantic assault, knowing what might come. Hoping it did.

“And I give you my seed to–to replace the blood and body of Christ…so you know I am your savior in his stead.” John’s voice cracked as he came, gripping Malcolm’s neck in an iron vice as Malcolm swallowed greedily, the bitterness of John’s come a reward he didn’t shy away from. When John finally let go, long after his cock had softened, Malcolm heaved dry and painful, a cramp seizing his stomach and spreading up into his lungs as his body fought to bring oxygen back into his bloodstream.

“Thank you,” Malcolm’s voice was hoarse and broken to his own ears as he dropped his head into John’s lap, feeling another piece of his strength chip away as John stroked his fingers through his hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm forced his eyes open and froze.
> 
> The Bible was several inches off the comforter, maybe even an entire foot. Malcolm grabbed for it blindly, hugging it to the rapid rise and fall of his chest and whispering a quick, desperate plea. “Please, god, please…”
> 
> Blinking past tears that had already sprung forth, Malcolm lowered the book and turned it to assess the damage. The scratches from the rough concrete were small but visible, and one corner was touched by blood. Malcolm’s stomach sank to his feet just as his heart leapt into his throat, terror making his entire body twist. John might actually kill him for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No actual smut in this one, but there will be in the continuation of this particular chapter. Hopefully the whump makes up for it!
> 
> Most important thing here is that some actual Stockholm syndrome appears.
> 
> A big thank you to my discord enablers! Y’all rock.

Malcolm emerged from drifting in a black ocean and rolled onto his side with a moan. He was past grunting in pain, past even groaning. Now he screamed, he whimpered, he moaned. Nobody but John would hear him, and it helped to scream and thrash and swear. _ “Let it out,” _ John had once said as he cut a line from the hollow of Malcolm’s collarbones to just above his where his pubic hair started, _ “Let God hear you.” _

Malcolm forced his eyes open and froze.

“No, no, no,” He whispered, scrambling to sit up and biting his tongue so his involuntary whimper wasn’t audible past the wall of his teeth. The Bible was several inches off the comforter, maybe even an entire _ foot_. Malcolm grabbed for it blindly, hugging it to the rapid rise and fall of his chest and whispering a quick, desperate plea. “Please, god, please…”

Blinking past tears that had already sprung forth, Malcolm lowered the book and turned it to assess the damage. The scratches from the rough concrete were small, but visible, and one corner was touched by blood. Malcolm’s stomach sank to his feet just as his heart leapt into his throat, terror making his entire body twist. John might actually kill him for this. Might strangle him in anger, and the last thing Malcolm ever saw would be the face of his savior. His _ kidnapper_. The only person he’d seen in months. The only person he had outside of feverish hallucinations and dreams of rescue that left him shaking with sobs when he woke up.

He heard the basement door’s hinges grate against one another and moved in blind fear before he realized what he was doing. He pulled one corner of the blanket over the Bible, realizing a moment too late that he’d pulled too hard. The cover bent in half and Malcolm stuffed as much of his fist as he could in his mouth to muffle his scream. He was already babbling apologies by the time John stepped into his line of sight, dropping onto his stomach with his hands raised as much as the angle and the pain of his bruised body allowed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Malcolm pressed his forehead to the concrete, tremors wracking his entire body and only worsening in intensity as John stepped so close Malcolm could see the toe of his boot from the corner of his eye. “Pluh–please, John, I’m sorry!”

“What have you done, little one?” John’s hand ran down his spine, rough hand warm. Malcolm whimpered.

“Look at you shake,” John sighed, something like awe in the sound. Something possessive. It was gone in an instant. “Answer me.” He kicked Malcolm in the ribs and he bit down until he felt his lip split, the taste of blood sharp and awful.

“I must have b-bumped it while I was sleeping, or–or–”

There was the telltale rustle of old, thin pages, and Malcolm braced himself for the storm. The noise of fury John made was inhuman. He rained blows down on Malcolm’s side, the back of his head, his hands. John screamed and shouted and swore like Malcolm had never heard before and he felt bones in his hand splinter, a rib crack, then nothing at all when John’s boot connected with his temple, hard.

* * *

When he came to, head and hand throbbing in unison, he was warm, something soft under him. Orange light filtered through his eyelids, flickering, and he opened them without thinking. The light sent stabs of pain into his skull, but he didn’t care. He hurt too much to care, everywhere. But none of that mattered. Not compared to the position he found himself in: laying in front of a fireplace on what felt like a couch.

Laying in front of a _ fireplace_. On a _ couch_.

He began to shake with laughter, turning his face away from the fire to press it into the couch cushion. He’d snapped. John had finally broken him. John would never take him out of that basement. John would never let him go free.

But this was fine. This was _ good_. If Malcolm was going to go insane, this was better than any alternative he could think of. Better not to think about anyone he would never see again. He could survive this right up until the moment he couldn’t, and that would be it. And that would be fine.

The illusion dissolved the moment John entered the room. It didn’t shatter like glass, but drifted away like dandelion seeds. Malcolm frowned, confused. John had _ never _ let him out the basement. John wouldn’t have let him out of the basement, not after the damage he’d done to the Bible. This was an odd punishment.

“Why did you move me?” Malcolm asked, voice rough as he squinted at John’s form, silhouetted by the fire.

“You don’t get to ask questions right now, Malcolm.” Malcolm winced back from the tone in his voice, weighing the risks of burying his head under the blankets. _ Plural _. But he was more comfortable than he could ever remember being. He couldn’t risk losing that, not so soon.

“Come.” Far too soon, John snapped his fingers and pointed to the wood floor at his feet.

Malcolm swallowed his misery, but it still took him what felt like a lifetime to unwrap the blanket cocoon and force himself to emerge. He dropped to his knees before John, ribs twinging, but the heat of the fireplace melted his fear of returning to the so-far permanent state of cold. Within moments, the waves of warmth became distractingly hot, the contrast between his usual chilled body temperature making him feel flushed, fatigued. He glanced sideways at the hearth, a new fear squirming in his guts. John wouldn’t have lit the fire without a reason. Was he going to burn him? He knew what the phrase _ baptism by fire meant_, but that didn’t fit John’s profile. He didn’t use weapons other than the rare handgun, which allowed him some distance from the harm he committed. He’d have to hold Malcolm down to burn him.

“Hands and knees,” John said, and Malcolm lowered himself gingerly, hissing at the pain that shot through his broken hand the moment he placed it on the ground. He grit his teeth and focused most of his weight on his other hand.

“You need to learn the importance of the written word of God, Malcolm. You need to understand that the Bible itself is as sacred as its content. It must not touch the bare floor. It must not be damaged.” John dropped to a crouch before him, lifting Malcolm’s chin. “I know this is difficult for you to understand. You were not raised to fear God.”

The smack that followed caught Malcolm off guard and he saw stars for a moment before John cupped his face again, thumb stroking over the spot he’d hit. “You will not doubt Martin’s teachings. But he and your whore mother failed you in that regard.” The mention of Jessica sent a hot flush of anger through Malcolm’s body. John hadn’t talked about her before. Hadn’t even mentioned her, like he forgot she even existed. In his life, there was only Martin. And Malcolm, now, too.

“You will learn.” John said simply, at once a promise and a threat. Lessons (punishments, brainwashings; fuckings, if he’d been bad enough) always started this way. Malcolm shivered.

John released him after a long sigh, like this was hard for _ him_, and stood. When he returned to Malcolm’s limited line of sight, it was with the tattered Bible in hand, cradled with a careful confidence. _ He think’s he’s worthy enough to handle it, _ Malcolm noted, the thought detached from his body, _ and he thinks I’m not. _ That same detached thought process was viciously pleased. _ You’ll never be worthy_, it told him, _not the way he wants you to be._

_ Good. _

Turning the book in his hands, John’s voice was level as he assessed the damage. “Scratched back cover. Blood on top corner. Bent front cover.” Malcolm cringed at the last item, the worst of them all. The Bible hadn’t been in perfect shape to begin with, and blood seemed like an inescapable outcome of Malcolm’s wounds and the stains they left behind on the comforter, but a bent cover would always show the damage. Even if Malcolm bent it back, the crease would remain as damning evidence of his damage to the book.

John’s sigh spoke volumes. “I have business to attend to, little Malcolm. While I’m gone, I want you to reflect on your sins and pray God forgives you for your careless treatment of His holy word.”

_ Business to attend to._ Malcolm’s stomach clenched in sick fear as he pictured John dragging a body back into the cabin again, torturing someone while Malcolm remained shackled in the basement, incapable of doing anything but cover his ears to block out the screams. More often than not, they would send him spiraling into a nightmare, but it was worse when they didn’t. Then he had to live with himself, tethered to a moment of utter helplessness while he listened to someone suffer and die a single staircase above him. He couldn’t help them. He couldn’t save them. He could count, now, the answer to Martin’s question, though it had warped from its original. Now it was _ how many people have you killed because you’re too weak to save them? _

“Take care of this book,” John said, balancing it on Malcolm’s shoulders so that his shoulderblades didn’t quite provide it a stable surface. “If I come back and you’ve dropped it,” He crouched long enough to grab Malcolm’s chin and force it upwards, squeezing until Malcolm’s darting eyes fixed on his own, the forbidden act breaking the rules John had laid out from the beginning, “I will flay the skin from your back. I will skin you like the filthy creature you still are.” He shook Malcolm’s head like a dog trying to thrash a bone from its owner’s hand before he released him, leaning forward to speak directly into his ear. His mouth so close his beard brushed Malcolm’s cheek. “Do you understand?”

Not daring to breathe, Malcolm nodded fractionally.

“Good.” John kissed him, a stamp of ownership, and left.

It took a moment for the task to properly register in Malcolm’s mind. He was to remain here on his hands and knees, until John returned. His _ broken _ hand and knees, all the while balancing the Bible on his spine. Malcolm’s mouth went dry. He was already shaking in pain, in shock from the temperature change, in fatigue. What if John was gone for _ hours_? It wouldn’t take Malcolm long to collapse, and he wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to rebalance and prevent the book from falling. There was no way he could do this. John had left him here, _ knowing _ he would fail. Knowing it was only a matter of time before what little strength Malcolm had gave out entirely.

The realization knotted despair around his bruised ribs and Malcolm felt his slack mouth begin to tremble in a precursor to tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, hard, and forced himself to inhale. The smell of burning wood made his stomach turn but he shoved the nausea away. If he was sick, his body would rock with the heaves, and the Bible would fall.

_ Don’t panic. _ John’s ‘business’ could just be him going outside for a breath of fresh air, or target practice with the gun he’d once waved in front of Malcolm’s face. For all he knew, this might only last a few minutes. John might just be waiting to see if Malcolm would shake so badly with fear that the book fell. But Malcolm knew, in his sinking gut, that that wouldn’t be the case. He’d be here for hours.

His arms were already shaking, every ounce of weight on his broken hand sending daggers of dull, unbearable pain from his wrist up to his shoulder. Like before, he shifted as much weight as he dared to his uninjured hand and pressed the heel of the other to the ground, seeking the least painful position to hold it. He alternated weight to the ball of his hand and his arm buckled immediately, the pain and the panic tearing a high scream from Malcolm’s throat. He felt the book wobble on his back and rocked desperately to make up for the slant, knees skidding against the floor.

He panted, panic like a flush of heat suffusing his entire body, adding to the sickening warmth of the fireplace. John had positioned him too close to the fireplace and he could feel sweat forming on his forehead, beneath his arms, in the crook of his bent knees. When it spread to his back, it could be a blessing or a curse: either the book would stick to his skin, or it would slide off. The same went for his hands, palms growing damp.

Carefully repositioning his hands, Malcolm hissed a quiet litany of _ “fuck, fuck, fuck,” _ as they began to slip. They caught quickly on the wood and Malcolm heaved an immense sigh of relief, spreading his fingers and pressing down with his fingertips in an attempt to maintain that friction.

_ Breathe_, he told himself, and he tried. He _ tried._ But his toes were cramping, demanding to be adjusted, and his arms continued to quake. Sweat began to drip down his temples and the insides of his arms and in his mind, it was blood. In his mind, his body was surrendering, skin so fragile the bruises were making it burst. His eyes were bleeding. His ears were bleeding. His ribs felt light and fragile as birds’ bones, bruises and broken bones contracting his lungs, preventing them from inflating properly. He suddenly felt weightless, floating in a tranquil sea of vertigo, heat, and agony.

When he blinked back into his body, tears had joined the sweat tracking down his face and his elbows had sagged halfway to the floor. The book was closer to his neck than it had been, but it seemed caught there, caged in the hollows of his shoulderblades and the base of his skull. Slowly, by fractions of an inch, he lowered his elbows to the floor, spreading his legs wider in an attempt to keep his back as level as possible. The tendons of his groin began to strain immediately, but that was a new pain, a different pain. A relief from everything else that hurt.

With the Bible staying in place, its spine braced against the base of his skull, Malcolm let himself cry. He cried because he missed the familiarity of the basement, because he missed his blanket. That was as far back as he let himself go. If he thought about life before this cabin, he’d crumble to the floor, undone. Even thinking about life _ outside _ this cabin made him ache. He remembered stars, trees, the color of grass and leaves and bark and the afternoon sky. He remembered birdsong. He remembered the caress of sunshine and the bite of wind. The thought that he’d never go outside again made him cry until he couldn’t see, the weight of the Bible his only comfort.

He’d have to tell John that. It would please him.

If John came back at all.

The thought made Malcolm gulp for breath, tears and phlegm making it difficult. Then he was screaming for the man, hysterical. _ “John! _ Please, please, John, come back! _ Please!” _He fell into babbling hysterics, trying to scream louder than his injuries, louder than his fear.

When he heard footsteps, quick and heavy, he forced himself back into his original position, shaking so hard he was sure that the Bible would fall the instant before John entered the room. That John was going to think he’d _ failed._

The man’s muddy boots appeared at the edge of the room and Malcolm _ wailed_. John was speaking, but Malcolm couldn’t make out the words. Only one thing mattered. As soon as he felt the Bible lifted from his back, Malcolm latched onto John’s legs, squeezing as tightly as he could as he buried his face against John’s hip. The worn denim smelled like pine and blood.

“Malcolm.” John’s hands were on Malcolm’s, trying to peel them away, but Malcolm clung tighter, feeling his tears begin to seep into the pocket against his cheek. John’s grip moved, hands hooking under Malcolm’s arms to lift him from the floor and crush him against his chest. Malcolm hugged him, ignoring the pressure on his ribcage from all angles.

“Little one,” John breathed, ducking his head to cradle Malcolm’s under his chin, “Little Malcolm, what is it?”

“Don’t leave me again,” Malcolm sniffled, taking handfuls of John’s jacket and reveling in the pain it shot through his broken hand. That pain was a gift from John and he was grateful for it. “Don’t ever leave me again. _ Please.” _

Malcolm felt John’s hum where their chests touched, the sound unmistakably fond. Unmistakably pleased. “I’ll always come back to you, my Malcolm. I would never leave you. You are my mission. You are mine to look after.” John’s hands stroked down his back, slipping through sweat, and Malcolm leaned into him like nothing else mattered. Nothing else did. Not anymore.

“Come back to the couch.”

“I can’t move,” Malcolm whispered, the idea of letting go physically painful.

“You don’t _ want _ to move,” John corrected, but he shifted, hooking an arm under Malcolm’s knees and hauling him off the floor. Malcolm grabbed John’s shoulders in panic, elbows aching, but the unsteadiness lasted only a moment before John settled them on the couch, Malcolm cradled in his lap like a child. Stress bled from Malcolm’s body and mind and he sagged into John’s arms. They felt closer to home than anything had in years.

He fell asleep there, gently rocking in strong, warm arms, and dreamed he was a child in a faceless father’s lap.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You will wear my mark,” John panted, dropping his forehead to meet Malcolm’s. He kept his eyes shut, terrified that if he saw the way John was looking at him, it would be the final straw. It would break down the will Malcolm still had that was separating his desires from John’s. The sound of John crying, his tears falling on Malcolm’s face, made that will stretch precariously.
> 
> “My seed and my scar,” He said, voice breaking, “You are mine, and you will know it for as long as you live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emphasis on the Stockholm syndrome here folks, even more than before. Like, at least two times as much Stockholm syndrome. There's a very strong blood kink in this one, too, that spans most of the story. And it's just creepy. It's so creepy that I almost feel bad. But, uh, not really. It’s too fun.
> 
> As always part one, a big shoutout to my cheerleaders and partners in filth on Discord.
> 
> As always part two, enjoy the terrible things I'm doing to Malcolm!

When Malcolm woke, John was gone. The couch and the fireplace, too, and Malcolm was on his back on his ratty blanket, the floor hard beneath him. He closed his eyes to seek out the refuge of that dream, tracking down what events he could remember. The battered Bible. His arms shaking as sweat rolled down his back, the weight on his broken hand nearly too much to bear. He remembered crying out, a terror consuming him from the inside out, and the flood of relief when John came back to him. _ “I’ll always come back to you, my Malcolm.” _

In his dream, John had been kind. Malcolm hadn’t recognized him, couldn’t reconcile the man who’s cradled him with the man who’d beaten and broken him. Who had taken him from everything he’d loved and dragged into his own radical fantasy.

Now he understood why good cops hated vigilantes.

Malcolm opened his eyes again and began to haul himself off the floor, looking for the Bible. It at least gave him something to do, and correct memorizations meant few (or no) beatings. Some days, John forgave him for forgetting a word. Other times, he hit Malcolm until he was too weak to defend himself and could only curl in on himself in a feeble attempt to protect vital organs.

The Bible wasn’t on either side of the fold in the comforter he used as a pillow, but before a knot of anxiety could harden in his stomach, something else caught his eye. His hand, swollen and purple. As if activated by his stare, it began to throb, the pain in his ribs also making itself known as Malcolm shifted back onto his side. He wouldn’t have been able to hurt himself this badly, even in the worst of his night terrors, especially with no surface to strike it on. If he’d hit the floor, he’d be scratched and bleeding. This was all internal.

Which meant–Malcolm prodded gently at his ribs with his other hand and jerked it away with a grimace as he found the tender spot of a cracked bone. He let his hands settle back on the blanket and stared at the shadowy corner of the basement where he could just make out the bottom steps of the staircase.

It had all been real. John had taken him out, had wrapped him up in front of a _ fireplace_. 

The punishment was irrelevant. Malcolm had lost too much ground when he’d called for John, when he’d let that monster lull him into a sense of genuine comfort. There was no recovering from that.

Malcolm lifted his head and let it fall back against the floor with a dull _ thud _ as shame made bile, hot and acidic, rise in his throat. John had cut him open, had hit him until his face was bloody and swollen, had called him filthy names, some of which Malcolm hadn’t even heard before. John had shoved his dick down Malcolm’s throat and made him thank him for it. But it was going to be John’s gentle touches that would ruin him.

He continued to lift his head and let it drop, the blanket a poor barrier between his temple and the basement floor. He was so dizzy by the time John’s hand touched his face Malcolm didn’t realize he’d entered the room, much less approached. John’s palm slid between his cheek and the floor and Malcolm watched the line of his jaw for telltale signs of anger.

“Are you trying to hurt yourself?” John’s thumb smoothed the hair of Malcolm’s eyebrow, voice gentle in a way that made Malcolm respond the way he had last night. His muscles loosened and a blanket of relief settled over him. _ John’s here. He’ll protect you, even if it hurts. _

“No,” Malcolm answered honestly, closing his eyes and sighing against John’s wrist. The man twitched. “I think I was just…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. It had just felt right, felt comforting. The rise and fall of his head, the way the room faded with each dull impact against his temple. It was something he could control, something he could escape into.

Before Malcolm could finish, John was guiding him upright and he obediently folded his legs under himself to sit up properly. He blinked owlishly, the world still feeling blurry. Everything but John’s hands on his arms.

“Look at me,” John ordered, and Malcolm licked his lips nervously. It took a moment of concentrated will to lift his eyes, all his training guiding him away from eye contact. _ “We cannot look the Lord in the face in challenge,” _ John had said, _ “We must trust that He is leading us along the path He has set out for us.” _ It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to see that John had positioned himself as Malcolm’s god. This realization had set the dusty cogs in his brain into motion. He could appeal to John that way. He could be the perfect worshipper, and when John was content, Malcolm was becoming increasingly familiar with Judas.

Malcolm met John’s eyes and found them warm but stern. The warmth faded after a moment and John released him, hands rough again. “You disappointed me last night, little one,” He said and Malcolm dropped his eyes immediately, swallowing. John’s hand snapped out to grab his chin and lift it back up so Malcolm was forced to meet his gaze again, fingers digging in. “I push you because I know you can do it. You’re almost _ there_, Malcolm, I _ know _ you are.” The intensity in John’s voice was like an unwanted hand passing down Malcolm’s naked spine, sending tremors through the rest of his body including, horrifically, his cock.

He didn’t want to be ‘almost there.’ He wanted to be somewhere else. He wanted to be _ anywhere _ else. He felt his heartbeat begin to betray him, picking up speed as he returned to old fantasies of escape: if Malcolm was allowed to be upstairs sometimes, surely there were knives. A hunting rifle. A pair of shed antlers, a rock just outside the door, _ anything_. If he could somehow get an opening and enough adrenaline to carry him through his weakness, he could do it.

But he couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t imagine himself firing the gun, or slicing John’s throat, because then this all would have been for _ nothing_. John had been trying to coerce, torture, force him into killing, and Malcolm hadn’t broken. If he killed John, John would have won. Malcolm wasn’t going to kill him, not even to save his own life. He wasn’t going to kill _ anyone_, because he wasn’t like John, like Martin. _ He wasn’t the same. _

“But not yet.” John must have taken the signs of Malcolm’s panic to mean he was hanging from a thread waiting for the other shoe to drop. “You sullied the holy book.” Malcolm’s gut clenched anew at the memory of the damage. The fold was unforgivable, a permanent and glaring mark of poor handling. “You have asked for forgiveness for dropping it, but you haven’t repented for the marks your recklessness left behind. But I will be your conduit, as I have been.”  
  
“And I am grateful.”

“And you are grateful. Stand.” John watched in silence as Malcolm began the slow, painful process of rising. He hardly stood anymore; he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been able to without assistance. Falling into the familiar pattern of box breathing, Malcolm drew his knees under him and shifted his weight back onto his heels, uninjured hand braced on his thigh to push himself upwards. For the first attempt, his legs were too weak and he fell back on his ass with a grunt; for the second, he swayed, fatigue coupled with muscle atrophy making his balance dangerously unreliable. John stood in silence, watching with eyes almost feverishly bright, pupils blown wide. Malcolm recognized that look. John reveled in seeing Malcolm helpless, seeing him entirely dependent on him. It _ aroused _ him, seeing Malcolm this way. He’d stopped being horrified by that some time ago. Now it was just a resigned disgust and a glimmer of hope to hold on to: lust was something he could manipulate. If he had the energy.

He’d hardly managed to make it to his feet when his knees buckled and he landed on his shoulder, hard, the impact jarring a cry from him. It hurt. It all hurt. Every square inch of his filthy body, mottled by bruising and old blood, hurt.

“I can’t.” It was the answer John wanted to hear. The answer he _ knew _ he would hear. He was a detail-oriented killer; he knew by now that he’d pared Malcolm down past the state of autonomy. He just wanted to see Malcolm accept how truly helpless he was without John’s help.

“You’re lucky I’m here to help you.” It was a statement of fact, and Malcolm could do nothing to change that. John had brought him here, had reduced him to _ this_, but without the food and warmth he (sometimes) provided, Malcolm would be dead. It made him nauseous every time he thought about it, but if he _ didn’t _ think about it, last night would repeat itself. He’d come to need John emotionally, too. He’d feel safe with John, and that was exactly what John wanted.

Malcolm wouldn’t give in. He was just...tired.

When John crouched before him, it was with cuffs in hand, and Malcolm mutely offer his wrists to be secured. John twisted his fist in the chain between them and used them to haul Malcolm half-upright and he _ screamed_, the pressure on broken bones and the sudden wrenching of unused muscles setting the undersides of his arms on fire. His feet dragged on the floor as John pulled him across the room and the pain barely subsided when John wrapped the chain around a hook in the ceiling. Malcolm recalled a vague memory of the sound of a drill while he’d been half-present and was at once flattered and nervous that John had installed something new just for this punishment.

He scrambled to get his feet under him, the height of the hook only making it possible for his toes to take any weight. _ Fuck_. Had John done this on purpose, knowing Malcolm’s arms would bear the brunt of his weight, or had he forgotten about Malcolm’s height? John was suddenly gone and Malcolm twisted his head to look over each shoulder, the flutter of panic from the night before returning. “Calm down,” He whispered to himself, “He said he’d never leave.”

As if the word of a serial killer meant anything.

John was back in his line of sight in moments, Malcolm’s eye catching him as he descended the last few steps. In his hand was a riding switch, tapered to an elastic but firm-looking end. Malcolm nearly laughed at the first thought that came to mind: _ I don’t remember the cabin having horses_. But this couldn’t be the same cabin Martin had taken him to as a child. Gil would have found him already.

_ Don’t think about Gil. _

_ Don’t think at all_.

He needed to steel himself for what was coming. Needed to split his mind off from his body so the pain of his hand, his arms, and whatever John did next was bearable. He had a solid guess for what it would be.

“You defaced the back cover,” John said, sure enough, voice calm. Like this was a rational response. _ You damaged God’s holy word_, Malcolm’s mind parroted John’s earlier words, and Malcolm jerked his head to shake the thought away.

The first strike came by surprise and Malcolm yelped, body jerking at the stripe of fire across his shoulders.

“Are you _ disagreeing with me? _” John’s voice was nearly as furious as it had been when he’d found the Bible in the first place and Malcolm shrunk away, back bowing.

“No–_no! _ I j–I just, it didn’t mean anything, I just twitched–” Malcolm’s voice broke off in a scream as two strikes rained down, crossing over one another. It wasn’t like the blow of a riding crop, the padded end localizing the sting during impact play, it _ hurt_. Tears bloomed in his eyes and he bit his lip, hard. Screaming would just spur John on. “I’m sorry.”

“Not yet you aren’t,” John growled, and Malcolm heard the whistle of the switch slicing through the air before he registered the pain. Each blow made him rock forward and he repositioned his feet desperately, trying to gain any traction at all to get even a scrap of reprieve from the weight on his arms. He hung his head, clenching his jaw at first, then biting his tongue to hold his screams at bay. But when the marks began to overlap, some hitting the dark bruising around his ribs, he couldn’t trap a scream behind ground teeth. It encouraged John, just as Malcolm knew it would, and he wept openly the first time when he felt his skin split, blood beading and running down his back. More joined it, the sting of the switch sinking deep until it felt like John was flaying him alive, like he was cutting stripes into muscle and reaching raw nerve.

Malcolm’s throat was hoarse as his screams warped into wailed apologies, apologies to John then, when John snarled _ “I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” _ God himself.

“You don’t mean it!” John almost sounded close to tears and he brought down the switch with a _ crack _ on the backs of Malcolm’s thighs. He _ shrieked_, legs jerking away so sharply he half-swung on the hook, arms straining when his toes left the ground.

_ “I do!” _John assaulted his legs, the insides of his knees, his calves, and tears were hot on Malcolm’s face and chest. “I do! _ John, listen to me! _ Please!”

“Recite Micah, chapter seven, verse eighteen. _ Convince _me.” Suddenly, John’s breath was on Malcolm’s shoulder, and the press of his tongue on stinging skin making it feel even hotter. “Pray to me, little one.”

Malcolm gulped breaths like sobs, the air cooling John’s saliva on his skin feeling like a bite of snow in comparison to the fire spread across his back. The pain and the flood of endorphins that answered it clouded his mind and he reached back into his memory to dredge up that particular book. _ Old Testament_, his brain managed, before John bit the curve of his shoulder hard enough to break skin.

_ “Who is– _who is a God like you–” Malcolm began, and John’s teeth dug deeper, his tongue probing at the bleeding punctures. Malcolm clenched his fists, nearly too-far gone to feel the grind of his broken bones, “–who pardons sin and forgives the transgression of the–the–”

He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t _ remember_. John released his mouthful of flesh and sucked on the wound, hard. He stepped up behind Malcolm, close enough that his chest pressed against Malcolm’s back, and he twitched at the prickle of chest hair against his swollen skin. When had John taken his shirt off?

Malcolm didn’t need to wonder _ why_.

“Remnant of…” John prompted, one calloused hand wandering down the front of Malcolm’s body. Malcolm swallowed hard and his voice shook as he started up again. “Remnant of his inheritance.”

“From the start.”

“Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives the transgression of th–the remnant of his inheritance?” Malcolm twitched as John’s fingertip circled one of his nipples, voice catching.

“Go on,” John breathed, and Malcolm whimpered as he rocked forward, grinding his erection against Malcolm’s ass. At least he was still wearing pants. _ Small mercies_.

“You do not stay angry forever, but delight to show mercy.”

“And I _ do_, Malcolm. I will show you mercy when you have earned it.” Malcolm registered the cold bite of steel beneath his collarbone, then John’s hand moved in a quick arc. Malcolm saw the blood before the pain hit, his head dropping a moment to look before snapping back as he howled in agony, the sound loud enough that it echoed. John’s moan was loud in his ear and Malcolm heard the knife clatter to the ground as John’s hands greedily smeared blood across Malcolm’s skin, following the line of the cut.

“How–John, how deep is it? _ John_, I need t–I need to know!” Panic clutched Malcolm’s lungs and he tried to look again, but all he could see was John’s hands red with blood. _ He’s going to kill me_, Malcolm thought, nearly delirious. _ I’m going to die here. _

“Don’t be dramatic,” John’s voice slid from its trance-like reverie into a rough sort of annoyance and he pressed down on the cut with one finger, following it from where it began at Malcolm’s shoulder and where it ended at his hip. _ Long, not deep_, Malcolm gathered, but that didn’t make him feel any less calm. The scar it was going to leave behind was–

Well. It was premature of him to assume he was going to live long enough for it to scar properly. But John would _ want _ it to. The whipping simulated the scratches on the back of the Bible; this cut was payback for the crease on its front cover. _ Fuck the book _ , Malcolm thought, a mighty shudder running through his entire body. John had marked him. _ For good_.

Rage surged to life in Malcolm’s veins and he bucked against John, flinging his head back in an attempt to break his nose. His skull made contact on what felt like an orbital bone and John shouted, but it sounded more angry than hurt. “Whore,” John growled, one blood-slicked hand wrapping around Malcolm’s throat while the other reached up to unhook Malcolm’s hands. His arms fell, heavy and useless. “That was a mistake.”

John spun him and shoved him, hard, and Malcolm landed on his back on the comforter. “Waitwaitwait–” Malcolm lifted his hands as well as he could, spreading fingers made purple by the constriction of the cuffs in surrender. “Not here, not on my–”

John shoved three fingers past his teeth and Malcolm tasted blood immediately. His _ own _ blood. He gagged and kicked out, trying to twist onto his side, but John sat hard on his thighs. “Yes, here.” He bent down to lick blood from Malcolm’s chest, teeth tinged pink when he looked up with a grin.

“It has to be here, my little one.” John spread his fingers across Malcolm’s tongue, pressing down until he gagged again, jerking away on reflex. “Because you’ve forgotten that I gave it to you. That I’ve given _ everything _ to you.” He kissed Malcolm’s forehead, the blood on his lips transferring to Malcolm’s skin, and set his chin there for a long moment. “Know that it brings me no joy to hurt you.”

“You’re lying,” Malcolm whispered, staring through tears at John’s dark beard, “All you want to do is hurt me. It makes you feel good.”

“No, Malcolm, _ no! _ ” John’s voice was so hurt, so sincere, it made Malcolm’s chest ache. The hand on his chest moved to stroke down his arm, squeezing his elbow gently. “You don’t understand yet, but you’re so close. You’re _ so _ ,” he kissed Malcolm’s forehead again, “_close.” _ John’s beard grew wet on Malcolm’s skin and he had just enough time to register that he was crying before he drew back, shifting back onto his knees.

“You can do it,” He whispered, drawing his fingers from Malcolm’s mouth to stroke them so lightly across his cheekbone it was like he was worried Malcolm would break. Malcolm stared back up at him, rage faltering at the sheer _ faith _ in John’s eyes. Academically, Malcolm knew killers like him lived in the realities they constructed. Not just killers, either–religious fanatics were everywhere. But he’d never seen it like this. And he’d never seen anyone look at him like that. Martin looked at him with the unconditional love of a father. Gil’s smile was nostalgic every time, layered with pride and worry.

But John looked at him with such certainty it made something deep in Malcolm’s chest hurt. There was something there that wanted to make John proud. Maybe Malcolm could change _ him _ , like he was trying to change Malcolm. Maybe Malcolm could _ save _ him. He never shot at the killers he talked to. He knew their options weren’t as glamorous as Claremont, but they still had families, had friends, had the ability to and _ deserved _ to recover. Even now, after all John had done, all those bodies in compactors, the man he’d left to go insane staring at his own reflection, the massive scar Malcolm would leave this dungeon with, he deserved better. Better than the memories of a child locked in a closet, clawing at the door. Better than a mother who instilled in him the hatred he had for others.

No, not others. _ Hate the sin, love the sinner_. He didn’t hate the people he killed. He loved the people he’d killed _ for_.

Malcolm arched up, tipping his head back far enough that he could catch John’s mouth in a kiss. He swallowed John’s surprised grunt, and when his mouth turned slack, the grunt elongating into a moan, Malcolm melted. His back hurt, his arms hurt, and the bite on his shoulder hurt, but they all combined into a full-body throb of arousal as John ground down against him.

“Uncuff me,” Malcolm said against John’s lips, and swam in a high of _ he’s going to do what I say, _ I’m _ in charge, _ until John sunk his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Not now,” He said simply, airily, like Malcolm’s wishes meant nothing to him. (They didn’t.) Then his hands were on Malcolm’s hips, fingers splaying wide as he smoothed them over Malcolm’s stomach and chest, not lightening his touch when his fingertips passed over the cut. Malcolm could feel the hot line of John’s arousal pressed against his hip and shuddered when John ground it against the groove of Malcolm’s hip through the fabric of his pants. Malcolm could feel himself hardening in response, and John pounced on that detail immediately.

His laugh was a quiet rumble and he dropped his head to lick a long stripe down Malcolm’s neck, beard scraping the sensitive skin along the way. Malcolm dropped his head back, breath erupting from his body in a great _ whoosh_. The sensation of beard and tongue spread across his collarbones, then down his chest, following the blood that had begun to dry on his skin. Malcolm panted up at the ceiling, trying to summon disquiet at the thought of John sucking blood from his skin, but when John began to moan, the mix of Malcolm’s blood and his own saliva making him slurp obscenely, rational thought dissolved entirely.

Malcolm bucked when John’s mouth closed greedily around one nipple, his fingers pressing into the cut where it ended at Malcolm’s hip. Malcolm couldn’t hold back the moan that exploded from his belly at the brush of teeth and his fingers spasmed, desperate to be free to scratch lines down John’s arms, to mark him back.

“A savior loves his disciples,” John murmured, breath cooling Malcolm’s nipple and sending goosebumps cascading across his chest. John was breathing heavily, nearly trembling, Malcolm’s blood a diluted stain on his chin. “I love my disciple.”

John’s nails dug into the cut, dragging the wound back open from his hip to just above his navel. “I love you, Malcolm.”

Malcolm _ whimpered_.

Then John was tearing the cut open the rest of the way, widening the gaps between the edges of Malcolm’s skin on either side of the wound. “_No! _John!” Malcolm found his voice and shouted in pain, but John was panting audibly, hips twitching like he was barely holding his arousal at bay. John grabbed one of Malcolm’s knees and pushed it to his chest, the strain burning down the inside of his thigh.

“J–wait, John, wait, _ wait!_” Malcolm’s protests fell on deaf ears and he bit down on the insides of his cheeks as John pressed one finger into him without preamble, harsh enough in his haste that Malcolm felt the edge of his fingernail catch on his rim. John twisted the finger and Malcolm gasped at the sizzle of pleasure that shot up his spine. He couldn’t wrap his mind around John being _ good _ at this, but maybe it _ did _ make sense, maybe something had happened in John’s past that made him understand this. _ What kind of relationship did you have with my father, John? _

Then John was pressing another finger inside him, just on the edge of too dry, too rough, and Malcolm’s thoughts fractured as those fingers crooked. “It’s–it’s too dry,” Malcolm stumbled over the words, resisting the urge to say _ fuck it_, followed immediately by _ fuck me_. “We need–lubricant, a condom–”

John cut him off with a bark of surprised laughter, sitting upright with a hand on Malcolm’s chest and the other still embedded between his legs. “No, little one, there will be no barrier between us. There never will be, ever again. Do you trust me, Malcolm?”

“Yes,” Malcolm answered quickly, hoping the lie would earn him some slick, anything.

“Then you know I won’t hurt you.” John swept a bead of blood from Malcolm’s shoulder and passed it over Malcolm’s bottom lip, smiling like a father, not a lover. “Let me prove it to you.” 

The fingers inside him stroked again, John’s thumb rubbing at the base of Malcolm’s cock, and Malcolm gasped for breath like a fish out of water. John had never let him come. Had always held him back by pulling out and finishing across his face or back, or grabbed Malcolm’s cock so tightly it had brought tears to his eyes. John had never been concerned with Malcolm’s pleasure, but now…

“Trust me,” John said again, carding bloody fingers back through Malcolm’s hair before he rained kisses on his forehead, his temples, his eyelids. “I told you from the beginning. If you obey me, if you follow my teachings, I will give you everything. _ Everything_.”

John pulled out his fingers and pushed the heel of his hand just above the deepest part of the cut where it sliced through the skin where Malcolm’s shoulder met his chest. It forced a fresh trickle of blood out of his body and John gathered it as best he could, moving his hands like he was trying to scoop water from a stream. The side of his hand began to glisten dark red and Malcolm lifted his head just long enough to watch John smear both handfuls of blood on the cock he’d drawn out, which was almost as dark as Malcolm’s blood.

Then he was lifting Malcolm’s other knee, grip slick, and pressing the head of his cock inside. They breathed together for a moment, inhales and exhales synchronized, before Malcolm dropped his head back.

“Go,” He whispered, and John slammed home in one snapping thrust. They shouted as one, Malcolm’s sore back bowing off the ground as he locked his legs around John’s waist.

“Good, my Malcolm,” John’s voice was breathless and reverent as he began to move, pistoning his hips until Malcolm was crying out with each thrust. He arched, tilting his hips until stars exploded before his eyes.

“God, John,” Malcolm moaned, and John’s hands were suddenly on his wrists, jerking his arms above his head.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” He said, slotting his teeth into the marks he’d left before on Malcolm’s shoulder, and Malcolm didn’t know whether he meant God or himself.

John bit down, _ hard_, hard enough to break more layers of skin and draw hot blood to the surface, and shuffled forward on his knees until their bodies were properly joined to the hilt, not an inch of flesh separating them. John rocked his hips once more, the friction of his stomach against Malcolm’s cock sudden and unexpected, and he was _ gone_.

When he returned to his body, John was sucking blood from the wound around his own teeth and slamming his hips against Malcolm’s body hard enough he could already feel bruises forming. Malcolm’s entire body shook, legs sliding bonelessly from around John’s body, and he lay there loose and blissful, barely conscious of the blood and sweat and saliva and come all sticky and cold on his skin.

He registered John’s coming in the way he stiffened and the hot splash of come reaching deeper inside him than anything ever had. “You will wear my mark,” John panted, dropping his forehead to meet Malcolm’s. He kept his eyes shut, terrified that if he saw the way John was looking at him, it would be the final straw. It would break down the will Malcolm still had that was separating his desires from John’s. The sound of John crying, his tears falling on Malcolm’s face, made that will stretch precariously.

“My seed and my scar,” He said, voice breaking, “You are mine, and you will know it for as long as you live.”

Malcolm turned his head away when John separated them with a final kiss to his cheek, listening to the sound of the man dragging himself back together. For the moment, Malcolm didn’t even try to follow suit. John was right. Even if he escaped this, even if he outlived John, these scars would never fade. He would always see the possessive bite and the irreparable crease transferred from the Bible to his own skin. They would fade over time, with treatment and cosmetic efforts, but never disappear.

When John returned to clean and bandage the wounds he’d inflected, Malcolm cooperated mindlessly, wondering if he’d ever see a reflection of himself again that wasn’t in John’s watery eyes. Almost hoping he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he’d recognize the man that gazed back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have cleansed your mind, now only your body and spirit remain."
> 
> “My baptism?” Malcolm straightened, turning his head to catch John’s eye. He was allowed to look, now, to see the earnesty in John’s soft smiles and the way his eyes glittered when Malcolm pleased him. That almost made it harder for Malcolm to look him in the face. He could get stuck there, get trapped in one of John’s smiles, the kind that made crow’s feet appear around his eyes, and never make it out again. John grinned, drops of water caught in his beard and his eyelashes as they shielded the proud eyes looking down at him.
> 
> “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good LORD, I'm so sorry this took so long to update. This chapter really fought me tooth and nail, but I'm pleased with how it turned out.
> 
> The tenses are weird, but John demanded to be written in present tense. I guess he's just more present in the moment or something.
> 
> Anyway, shoutout to my lovely lovely cheerleaders on the prodigal son trash discord. #blessed.
> 
> One last thing–I'm planning for this to have one more chapter, and a coda followup thingy that I've been thinking about since pretty much day one of this fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

John will remember the look on his Malcolm’s face for as long as he lives. And he’ll describe it to Malcolm after this is over so they can savor the memory together. Together, just the two of them. Forever.

_ Forever_.

His little one seems frozen in place so John leads him gently by the elbow, stroking a thumb down Malcolm’s forearms and finding the muscle there taut. He’s nervous. He's afraid. Satisfaction is a giddy rhythm playing against the inside of John’s ribcage and he can taste blood and excitement in the air. He’s still charged by the energy of that city, each dirtied soul writhing like a maggot and howling for the Lord’s mercy. Some deserve it. Some don’t.

Malcolm, trembling in front of him, pale skin all but glowing in the work light, so, _ so _ close to being ready. He deserved it.

The _ whore _ who tried to take him away from John, from God, didn’t.

John had taken pains setting the stage just right. He doesn’t like getting his hands dirty; the Lord said Thou Shalt Not Murder. John doesn’t murder, he _ saves_. It’s his job, not some sloppy psychopath’s sick thrill. He and Martin laughed at those killers; the Lord frowned upon braggarts, but he and Martin were careful. Both of them clean, both of them close to God.

But killing Special Agent Colette Swanson was one of the most satisfying things he’s ever done. He knows God will forgive him after all the work he’s done.

He’d bound her to tightly the kitchen chair, used old rope and fishing twine, because corpses couldn’t feel pain. She was sitting upright, posture proper, hands bound together in prayer she probably never did, the bowl settled carefully between her knees. He hadn’t found a way to keep it firmly in place, but if it fell over, he’d simply refill it from a vein in her wrist. It would make the process longer, but he wasn’t going to ruin this for his Malcolm. Not after everything he’d done to earn this. He’d even earned himself a pillow.

Before her: a towel laid carefully to avoid wrinkles, the pillow at the head. Beside her: a tub of the coldest water he could get from the hose out back.

John’s heart swells with pride and he smiles down at his disciple, who is still staring at his gift with eyes so wide he could see white all the way around irises the color of the purest skies. He imagines they’re what Heaven will look like. John wants to see them in contrast with the blood of unholy pollutants on his face. Malcolm will make such a beautiful savior. The two of them, cleansing this city, one broken soul at a time. Together. Forever.

He steps forward, cradling the back of his Malcolm’s head and guiding him forward to get a closer look at the masterpiece John has made for him. “Go on,” He murmurs, pushing until Malcolm can meet his enemy’s blank eyes. “Enjoy.”

* * *

John’s hand was a gentle rhythm over his back, lathering soap over sore shoulders. The cuts the whipping had left behind had closed, but the bruising beneath his skin still hurt. His entire body still hurt, but it hurt less with the warm water raining down on his head from a showerhead so old he nearly hadn’t recognized it at first. Then the delivery mechanism had stopped mattering because it was _ water_. He’d strained weakly against John’s grasp, desperately reaching for the knob, but John had pulled Malcolm back against his chest, shushing him gently as he’d guided them into the tub.

Water had hit Malcolm’s toes a moment after the knob turned, and when the shower head turned on and the first drops fell on his face, he’d wondered if that was what people felt when they found God. _ Once was blind… _

He drank for as long as he could, head tilted back and mouth open wide, before John’s hand slid around and he stroked fingers over Malcolm’s throat. “Bow your head,” He murmured, and Malcolm dropped it entirely, letting his head hang loose from his neck. As his hair wet, water ran down his face in rivulets like false tears. He felt too dehydrated to produce any of his own.

John guided Malcolm back into his chest and Malcolm twitched at the touch of cold liquid on his scalp. He was too tired to jump and barely able to stay upright, even with John’s solid weight bracing him. When John’s fingers dug into his scalp, sorting through filth and matted tangles. Malcolm rocked with the motions, brain dull even as his body sang with sensation. It was _ water _. He’d washed John’s feet with the same thing, but it hadn’t occurred to Malcolm that the cabin had a shower. And shampoo had quickly dropped down his list of concerns, below brushing his teeth but above getting a nail file resolute enough to flatten his nails to the quick to discourage himself from biting them.

John’s fingertips pressed hard and Malcolm melted back against a chest that buzzed with quiet laughter. “Easy,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through Malcolm’s hair. It felt longer than it had been. His beard had begun to grow in, making his face itch and catching blood from his nose or mouth when John hit him.

“This is the final task before we can finally, _ finally _ begin,” John’s other arm snaked around Malcolm’s waist and he began to sway as though they were dancing.

“We haven’t started yet?” Malcolm asked weakly, and opened his eyes to watch gray suds cluster around the drain at his feet before vanishing through it.

John laughed again, reaching over Malcolm’s head to rinse his hands before his arm vanished from Malcolm’s periphery. Then John’s hands were on Malcolm’s chest, coating his skin with soap and massaging it into a lather.

“No, little one. I have cleansed your mind, now only your body and spirit remain. Your body now,” Malcolm closed his eyes again, bracing for a hand smoothing down his stomach or a leg nudged between his own, but neither came. John’s rhythm was unbroken as he finished. “Your spirit next.”

“My baptism?” Malcolm straightened, turning his head to catch John’s eye. He was allowed to look, now, to see the earnesty in John’s soft smiles and the way his eyes _ glittered _ when Malcolm pleased him. That almost made it harder for Malcolm to look him in the face. He could get stuck there, get trapped in one of John’s smiles, the kind that made crow’s feet appear around his eyes, and never make it out again. John grinned, drops of water caught in his beard and his eyelashes as they shielded the proud eyes looking down at him.

“Yes.” He blinked and tears fell, making his eyes look even brighter as the bathroom’s light caught the contours of the moisture hugging his wetline. He looked so proud. So _ happy_. Malcolm felt his entire body warm, light enough that he could easily float away.

“I’m so happy to see you excited.” John ran his hands down Malcolm’s arms then back up, squeezing his shoulders lightly, lovingly. “I didn’t think you’d ever look forward to this day. I didn’t think I’d be able to convince you.”

Malcolm returned to his body, warmth dropping into an uneasy lukewarm. The same way it always did when things got…

Confusing. Messy. When John’s wishes weren’t suddenly the only things that mattered. When he could peek through the slats of his own closet at the life he’d left. _ Been saved from_, he reminded himself, resigned to recalling John’s teachings. There was congestion in his head, thoughts like a clogged artery, just a bad shock away from a stroke.

But that was a shock he could avoid if he closed those slats. It had been months now, he was sure of it. Somewhere along the way, when he wasn’t paying attention, those slats had closed on their own.

Instead of answering, Malcolm dropped his head back on John’s shoulder, closing his eyes. John hummed an unfamiliar melody as he washed Malcolm’s stomach and the small of his back. He felt the stirrings of arousal start as John’s hands traveled lower, thorough, but they didn’t linger. Malcolm groaned in quiet protest, the sound trailing off into a breathless moan when he heard John’s knees hit the bottom of the tub. His bearded cheek brushed Malcolm’s buttock and he lathered a new layer of soap over Malcolm’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles into the muscle of Malcolm’s ass before his hands dropped lower.

When he moved to bend Malcolm’s knee, taking his foot in his hand, Malcolm’s lungs froze. The heat of arousal made up for it and he gaped helplessly at the ceiling. John was washing his feet. _ John _ was washing _ his _ feet. Like a disciple. Like a worshipper.

John’s thumb dug into the arch of Malcolm’s foot and he moaned outright, body jerking like John had pressed a bolt of electricity into his skin. “So beautiful,” John murmured, and Malcolm jumped again, this time from the imprint of John’s teeth as he nipped the soft skin of his thigh.

“_John_,” Malcolm gasped, raising a hand to stifle his giggle. He could only lift it halfway, shoulder still braced on the wall to keep himself upright without John’s steadying, and Malcolm dropped it entirely at the delighted noise the man made.

“You’re putting ideas in my head,” He said, breath even hotter than the water on Malcolm’s skin, “So _ sensitive_. Such in your clever, clever mind, so in your beautiful body. You are a vessel, nearly ready to be filled with the word of God.”

If that was meant to be a double entendre, John didn’t follow up with it, simply moved on to the next foot. Malcolm was on the verge of begging when a soap-slicked hand slid between his buttocks, the last passing finger bent so that its knuckle caught on the rim of Malcolm’s entrance. A thumb returned a moment later, rubbing in maddeningly slow circles. But he didn’t dare complain, didn’t dare question what John gave him. (His Savior wanted nothing but the best for him.)

The thumb sank in to the first knuckle, then it was tugging, spreading the rim so the tip of a wet tongue could push its way inside. Malcolm swayed at the sudden wave of arousal and leaned his head against the shower wall so he wouldn’t fall. (His Savior would never let him fall.)

John fucked him with slow thrusts of his tongue, adding his other thumb to pull Malcolm open wider. He pressed one finger in alongside his tongue, then added another as he leaned back to speak. "And all in the crowd were trying to touch him, for power came out from him and healed all of them."

“Luke six-nineteen,” Malcolm whispered, not certain if John was talking about him or himself. 

“He healed the leper…the blind man…” John’s voice dropped off as he licked back inside, fingers spread wide. Malcolm shut his eyes, feeling like his heart was moving as fast as the water beating down on his shoulders. John curled his fingers the same moment he reached around to close his hand around Malcolm’s cock.

It didn’t take John long between the two points of contact to stroke him into hardness and it took even less before Malcolm was straining for his orgasm, toes pressing into the acrylic. Another careful curl of John’s fingers and when Malcolm came, he heard himself cry out for John over the roar of the shower.

“My Malcolm,” John murmured, spreading his buttocks one last time to lick a long, slow stripe along the seam of his ass. “You’re ready.”

* * *

John will remember the look on his Malcolm’s face for as long as he lives. And he’ll describe it to Malcolm after this is over so they can savor the memory together. Together, just the two of them. Forever.

_ Forever_.

* * *

Colette’s blood dripped from her face, still warm, catching in the well between Malcolm’s bottom lip as he gaped, unable to look away from her corpse. Her steepled fingers brushed the side of his face like a caress and Malcolm looked past them, seeking her face through the strings of blood falling from his hair. Her chin was slumped against her chest, dull eyes half-open beneath the weeping crescents of slipping false lashes and staring directly at him.

Malcolm was screaming by the time John shoved his head underwater. He didn’t close his mouth fast enough when John pulled him back up and water streamed in, diluting the taste of iron and his own rank breath. His body shook with violent coughs, working to expel water from his lungs until his stomach ached, but he wasn’t there with it. He was still kneeling before Colette, meeting her dead stare. He was still watching blood leak from her slit throat into the bowl. Then John was righting him, both arms wrapped around him, squeezing his arms against his sides. Malcolm barely heard him cooing, water and vertigo blocking his ears.

“This is my gift to you,” John’s forehead was against the back of his head, his hands spread over each shoulder, but his voice was everywhere. It would have been the last thing Colette heard. It would be the _ only _ thing Malcolm could hear. The only thing he’d ever hear. The only thing he _ wanted _ to hear. Because what he was saying made sense, because it was true that–

“She hurt you. She wanted to ruin you.”

_ How does he know_, he wondered, almost in awe, but it didn’t matter. Maybe Malcolm had told him. Maybe John had been keeping closer tabs on him than he’d thought, to know she’d been the reason he’d been removed from the case. Maybe Paul had asked her himself. She would have had to have been close enough for him to cut her throat; she would have had to have been ambushed. Or knocked out first, because she was too well-trained to be easily overpowered. And she was smart, she wouldn’t have been alone. _ She _ would have called for backup, which meant one of two things: either someone would be looking for her, or there were more bodies outside.

Malcolm strained in John’s arms, desperate to see his face. “J-John,” He gasped, shivering from more than just the cold. “D-did you–”

He spoke the rest of the question into the water, vision blurring when his temple cracked against the size of the tub. John’s fingers were in his hair instead of just pushing this time, fist held so tightly Malcolm could feel strands tear free as he pulled him back up. Malcolm heaved bile and pink water into the tub, body cramping as it arched, and John shoved his face into it a moment later.

“–t doesn’t sound like a _ thank you! _ ” John’s voice was furious in a way it hadn’t been since the _ beginning_, when all it was was John’s hot wrath and cold logic, veering so suddenly between the two that Malcolm didn’t know what part of himself to defend; his body or his mind. Then John had gotten warm, and Malcolm had been confused and hurt and scared. Then John had grown _ kind_, and Malcolm had lost himself.

_ “Thank you!” _ Malcolm grabbed for John’s wrist with both hands and when he found it, he stroked his fingers over coarse hair and straining tendons. “Thank you, John, you’ve made me an altar,” He panted, throat aching. “You’ve made _ me _ an alter, she’s here to–b,” He doubled over in a cough that made his eyes water, but forced the words through, wheezing between them. “To beg for–my forgiveness.”

John’s fingers unfurled, hand softening to once again cradle the back of his head. When he spoke, his voice was bright with pride. “_Good_,” He said, the vowel stretching as his thumb stroked the crescent of naked skin behind Malcolm’s ear, “Good, my Malcolm. And what do we do to those who beg for forgiveness?”

Malcolm gulped in a breath, the taste of blood still clinging to ridges of his molars. “We forgive them and hope the Lord does the same.”

“Yes.” John’s hand shifted minutely and Malcolm forced his shoulders to loosen, but the tension snapped back into place the moment his face touched water. John kept him under shorter, because he was behaving, or longer, because he needed to behave _ better_, and Malcolm couldn’t tell which. All that mattered was getting through it.

“Who do you serve?”

Malcolm snorted water from his nose, gagging over the concrete as his body tried to expel the water in his lungs through his stomach. “God,” He rasped, and whimpered at the twitch of intent, the whisper of motion of John’s fingertips.

This time, when John pushed him under, it was too long, too _ long_, and Malcolm thrashed, sucking in a mouthful of water. John let him up and Malcolm fell to his hands, fire searing the inside of his throat as he vomited water and coughed until flecks of red joined the wet on the floor.

“No more, John, you’re g–plea–please–” He reached weakly behind himself, groping for John’s boot. His fingers managed to brush it before John dunked him under again. Malcolm didn’t hear what he said this time, then he only heard ringing in his ears, the pitch growing until it was deafening.

This one felt like it lasted only a moment, then John was laying him back on the concrete, carefully transferring his head onto a thin pillow, one of the ones from the couch. Malcolm recognized the shape, the musty smell. John pressed a kiss to his forehead, his cheeks, either eyelid, then blew a hot breath into his mouth. It quickly became a kiss, John’s tongue feeling like a brand against the inside of Malcolm’s cheek. Muscle memory made him respond, but his hands were moving, pushing weakly at John’s chest as his lungs immediately began to burn. But he was already moving to rise, retreating from Malcolm’s line of sight. He stared at the ceiling, vision wobbling with tears and dark around the edges. He coughed weakly, breaths whistling past what felt a hurricane of fine shards of glass spinning in his lungs.

When John’s face swam back into view, a wobbly smile was easy to find. He’d done it.

“Not just yet,” John said, like he could hear Malcolm’s thoughts, and maybe he could. Because their thoughts were the same. They were the same.

“Wh..” Malcolm lost the word into soft fabric and he blinked against gauzy white. Through it, he could just make out John’s shoulders silhouetted against the light. His John. _ Come back to me_, Malcolm thought, the ache that started in his core when John moved away from him blooming in record speed.

John’s form blotted out the light as he returned and Malcolm closed his eyes with a content sigh. He’d _ done _ it.

Then everything turned a dark, wet red.

Malcolm sucked in a surprised mouthful of air–but it wasn’t air, it was blood, lukewarm and salty and slick in a way water wasn’t. It entered his lungs and he coughed, choking on blood he refused to swallow. It spilled from the corners of his mouth and he turned his head, clawing at John’s shins, but he was scared, he was weak, he was suffocating.

The weight of John’s body settled onto his stomach, warm, strong thighs bracketing his thrashing legs. He grabbed Malcolm’s jaw, jerking his face forward, and shoved a thumb between his pursed lips. Then one finger, then two, dipping into the blood pooling in the back of Malcolm’s mouth and stroking over his tongue before pressing down _ hard_.

Malcolm gagged helplessly, body jerking as blood and fingers choked him. His chest ached with the desire to retch, the sensation triggered even with nothing in his stomach. He reached again for John, fingers catching on the fabric of his shirt, but he’d become a weight Malcolm could no longer shake.

“Swallow,” John said, voice firm, almighty. In that moment, the taste of birth and death heavy on Malcolm’s tongue, the command sounded like the voice of God.

Malcolm swallowed around John’s fingers, feeling the hot streaks of tears dampen the hair at his temples, and heaved immediately. John’s hand closed over his mouth, fingers slipping free to plant bloody fingerprints on his jaw. He kept his hand there and Malcolm struggled to suck in a breath through his nose, then there was a soft _ clink _ near his ear and a second hand fell on his face, fingers pinching Malcolm’s nose shut. Malcolm stared up at the ceiling, desperately searching for some unfamiliar crack or watermark to distract himself from the tension growing in his lungs, the vignette of black spots beginning to make his vision tunnel. Then, with a growl of frustration, John pulled his hand away and turned Malcolm on his side so he could spit up blood between heaving coughs, each feeling like they were trying to tear his lungs from his body and cough them up onto the floor next to the mouthful of blood spreading across the concrete like the spatter from a gunshot.

John sighed heavily and Malcolm shrank away from the disappointment, stiffening when John’s hand began to rub gentle circles into his back. “Breathe,” John said with all the begrudging irritation of a father watching a beloved child fail and fail again. Malcolm stopped coughing, stopped breathing, because he was _ failing_.

“I…” He trailed off, wheezing through what felt like lungs full of sand. John didn’t wait for him to finish.

“We’ll have to start again,” John said, and shifted until his knee pressed into Malcolm’s solar plexus. He didn’t need to speak for Malcolm to recognize it as a threat, and he squeezed his eyes shut, fingers clenching, as the weight increased as John reached for the bowl. The bowl of Colette’s blood, the bowl he’d refill until he was satisfied. Malcolm could picture with sickening detail her limp body cut from elbow to wrist on each arm, deep slices along her cheeks, fingers severed a few at a time.

John’s knee dropped back to Malcolm’s side and he could breathe again, but not easily. The bowl was in John’s hand, then Malcolm couldn’t breathe at all.

“Tell me you serve God.” John’s voice was quiet as he drew the cloth back over Malcolm’s face, dragging with it the renewed copper stink.

Malcolm sniffed past tears, mouth trembling. When he spoke, he was proud that his voice wasn’t. “I serve God.”

John dipped his fingers into the bowl and flicked his fingers over Malcolm’s face, drops of blood falling on his forehead. He twitched, eyelids flickering reflexively.

“Tell me you will obey God.”

“I will obey God.”

Another sparse shower of hot drops. Another wince. Then John wiped his hand on his pants and when he leaned forward, it was with a smile so warm Malcolm felt heat suffuse through his body even as the blood on his skin cooled. Then John’s lips touched his forehead, beard blending the drops together, and Malcolm _ sobbed_.

“You will obey _ me_.”

Malcolm sniffled and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of pine that always lingered on John’s clothes. “I will obey you.”

John kissed him and Malcolm tilted his head back to meet him, not flinching away from the hint of blood. It was inconsequential, now. “Say you love me.”

“_I love you,_” Malcolm gasped, then everything went red again.


End file.
